Old Bob dismounts from his hand-built motorcycle. He tugs down on his leather vest until it meets up with his pants and turns to face the twenty or so people gathered out front of the waffle truck parked in the desert.

“Hello everyone, and welcome to the inaugural meeting of the Rocket Angels Motorcycle Club. Not gang, mind you, as that name indicates some sort of criminal type activity, as you are well aware.”

“I thought we were gonna do crimes.”

“Shut up, Percy. We will do no such thing. We will simply provide — security at the Earth drop sites, in exchange for a proper percentage of the haul, that’s it.”

Old Bob is not really old, just kind of worn. He’s got a salt-and-pepper braid down his back and a scruffy goatee. The group he is addressing are sitting on or standing next to a wide array of improvised vehicles, most of which have two wheels. Some of them have three or sport a sidecar or trailer. A couple of the bikes hover.

“We may have to do some crimes, you know, to establish that we mean business,” Percy says. “It’s part of the rules of the road, if you know what I mean.”

“Percy,” Old Mike says, putting up a finger, “do not use this club – not gang – as an excuse to do crimes. We will not come bail you out of whatever makeshift jail you get yourself into.”

“You’re about as much fun as a wet rock,” Percy says.

Old Bob pushes Percy’s shoulder, hard enough that Percy and his bike tip over. He leaves Percy there, struggling with his arms and legs like a bug.

“We’ll need some technology,” Old Bob says, “to detect the Earth drops and their contents before they come down.”

“I know a guy,” someone says. “He’s the pilot of this piece of junk airship.”

“Okay talk to your guy,” Old Bob says. “I guess that’s it for now, everybody’s invited to my place later for hot dogs and beans. I’ll send you the coordinates as soon as I get myself settled.”

“I’ll make us patches for our jackets.” This statement comes from a tiny lady who goes by the name of Mavis. She’s got to be eighty, white hair piled atop her head. She’s also got the nicest bike of them all – chrome, leather, a real beauty. She carries a kerchief tucked into the front of her shirt, which she regularly uses to wipe away impurities.

Darby hands a glass slide to Agent Millman, who installs it in the nearest microscope. He leans down and makes some adjustments with one hand while aiming the eyepiece with the other.

“You know your way around lab equipment,” Darby says.

“It’s a requirement of the job. I do a lot of sifting through evidence,” Agent Millman says. “Some evidence is very small.”

“I see,” Darby says. He pours a cup of tea from a hot plate at one end of the long workbench. Glass vials line the shelves on the wall. There are several skylights, which spill uneven grey Scar City light into the lab. Darby relies instead on ornate, green-hooded table lamps stationed at intervals throughout the lab.

“What am I looking at here?” Millman asks. His blond ponytail falls over his shoulder as he leans in.

“That’s a bit of deterioration there, in the cells,” Darby says. “I spotted it right away. This is a signature I see a lot with shape-shifting organisms like yourself.”

“Hm,” Millman says, still staring into the microscope. “How far along is this process?”

“Far enough,” Darby says. Edward was right, you need to be careful not to flip gender too terribly often from here on out. Each time you do, there’s — damage.”

“I’m not in control of that,” Millman says. “It just happens. It’s slowing down, but still. I can feel it coming, and then, blam. I’m not in charge.”

“Well maybe I can help you devise a way to be in charge,” Darby says.

“Fine,” Millman says. “Right now, though, I’ve got a case heating up and I have some leads to run after. I’m afraid I can’t stay. But tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you.” Millman straightens and grabs his jacket off a stool, heading for the door.